


Prayer

by skyholdherbalist



Series: Holystone [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 00:52:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyholdherbalist/pseuds/skyholdherbalist





	Prayer

In the days after the Conclave, everyone looked to their gods. Bryn witnessed many prayers. They were sighed, screamed, choked through blood. Penitents on hands and knees in the snow begged for mercy before the end of the world. Survivors murmured hymns, songs of resilience and blessings, soft under their breath. 

It was not until he saw her pray that their meaning struck him. 

He carelessly pushed through a door into a dark room, and stopped when he found it was not empty. 

Cassandra Pentaghast knelt upon the cold flagstones. Her hands were tight fists at her knees. Her eyes were shut against the mass of candles on the altar before her. The candles flickered, and the light trembled over the fresh cuts on her cheek, across her wet upper lip. 

Bryn leaned into a cobwebbed corner. If she knew he was there, she did not show it. 

She spoke as though she were gasping for air. “Blessed Andraste. Help me to know the truth of your words.” She sniffed, and sighed. “Remember the fire.” Her voice was rote, a recitation. 

When her eyes opened, her gaze upon the candle flames was at once fierce and fragile. The pain in her voice throbbed into him, aching as she spoke the Chant. 

_Remember the fire. You must pass  
Through it alone to be forged anew.   
Look upon the Light so you   
May lead others here through the darkness,   
Blade of the Faith. _

His breath shallow, he tried to be silent, listening as her prayer faded to a whisper. 

When had he last uttered anything like a prayer? As he made his goodbyes to Clan Lavellan so many years ago, he paused by the herded halla, resting in a field. One caught his eye, and stood, and walked to him, bending to offer her neck for a caress. He stroked the warm white fur and felt her breath upon his skin. Something deep within him shuddered. _Ghilan'nain, guide me_ , he thought. _Guide me on a path I do not yet know._

But he was a child then. After that, it had been years. A few offhand thoughts— _Sylaise, hold these ropes to the mast._ Superstitions. A sailor’s faith.

If a ship was in danger, a storm or a skirmish or the stars seemed to fade from the sky, sailors did pray. They were not a pious lot, as a rule, but faced with death they were as frightened as any in Haven had been beneath the Breach. Between the heavy blows of waves crashing onto the deck, or as a ship drifted aimlessly on still waters, a sailor might kneel upon the rough wood and beg for his life, for a strong wind. 

Bryn did not join them. He always hoped the prayers of others would see him through, that any blessing they received might reach him, too, just being nearby. In a way he still held that hope. He could not ask for himself. 

This prayer was different. Cassandra did not pray for herself to be saved, or for others to be blessed. She prayed for the strength to go on. She prayed for the ability to do what had already been asked of her. She, iron-willed, a force like he had never seen, prayed for help. 

“Did you need something?” Her voice, now sharp and matter of fact, brok through the cloud of his thoughts. She had turned toward him, still kneeling, and looked up, expectant, but not displeased. 

“No, I…” Bryn stammered and pushed from away from the wall. “My apologies,” he said softly, “I did not mean to interrupt your…”

She smiled, and it was a gift. “No apology is necessary. I make no secret of my faith.” 

The choked grief in her voice, the tears, all gone. He was glad of it. Perhaps she had already received the strength she requested. He held out a hand to her. 

Cassandra, for only a moment, hesitated. Then she took his hand, the worn leather of her glove soft and cool against his palm. He pulled her up, close to where he stood.

It was like it had been in that cell. Shackled on the ground, he had stared up at his captor in confusion, her beautiful face enraged. When she dragged him to his feet, she seemed indignant that she had to look up to meet his eyes. 

Now their eyes met again in the dim candlelight, no anger or fear between them. Her hand still rested in his own. Even in the dark he could see her flush, just a little. 

Cassandra pulled her hand away and moved to leave, when she paused at the door. She studied him a moment, and he felt himself growing warm under her scrutiny. _Blushing_ , he thought. _An old sea rat like you blushing. Well, you aren’t dead yet, are you?_

“I can only imagine,” she began slowly, “that your presence might aid my prayers.” 

The blush faded. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, gently, as though she were speaking to a favored but naive child, “you are Andraste’s chosen.” 

Yes. That. He knew. He could no longer meet her eyes, ashamed suddenly. Ashamed of what, he was not sure. 

But he felt her eyes upon him, searching his face for what he himself did not know. He forced himself to look there. “I am sorry,” she said, though he was not offended. He was intimidated. It was not a feeling he was used to. “Does that frighten you?”

If he could be as honest as her eyes were in this moment… If he could be as strong as he was, strong enough to admit his weakness. To take her as a guide. “Yes,” he replied, and his voice felt faded. “A little.”

She nodded, a soft smile on her lips.


End file.
